


Late Night Phone Call

by isthemachinesinging



Series: This is Fundamental [2]
Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthemachinesinging/pseuds/isthemachinesinging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/743177">"Unintended Consequences"</a>, Misha calls Ben.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Night Phone Call

He closes the door behind him and leans against it. Misha had driven him back here after they’d met in his trailer to talk about Cas at the end of the day. Or Misha had _said_ it was to talk about Cas; turned out he was more interested in getting him to relax. _You’re not sleeping…You need to learn to relax._ Rubbing his shoulders, his back…Well, that hadn’t gone well. He’s more keyed up than ever, exhausted but tense, mind racing. And horny as _fuck_.

He collapses onto the bed. He’d let himself relax into Misha’s touch, and he’d gotten--It had been a bad idea, a very bad idea, to let Misha touch him like that. He’d known that, but he hadn’t wanted to resist, to say anything, because—he might as well admit it. He wanted those hands on him, to touch him, to stroke him and…ah, God.

He unbuttons his pants, pulls and snakes them down over his narrow hips. He doesn’t usually do this, tries not to think about Misha when he takes himself in hand, but sometimes it’s just too much. Fantasizing about him would just encourage and solidify his feelings, which are otherwise, he thinks, just an odd quirk in his makeup. He thinks he’s read that somewhere. Not the odd quirk part, though he’s sure there are plenty of places he could read that, the part about reinforcing this attraction. It’s in his mind, anyway, and it makes sense, so he believes it. But right now, he’s going to make an exception.

He licks his palm, wetting it. He could probably find something better, but he’s too tired to get up and besides he’d probably just find lotion that smelled like sort-of-but-not-really of flowers or some shit like that. This is good, anyway. He wants it hard and rough and _right now_. He reaches down, grips himself, strokes slowly, firmly. Thinks of Misha’s hands on him, stroking, and his left hand splays across his belly, moving up to his chest, caressing, picturing Misha turning him around, doing the same. He groans and his hand moves faster. Shit, he’s not going to last long.

He slows himself down, hissing a bit at the self-denial. If he’s going to allow himself a fantasy, he’s going to damn well enjoy it. He pictures it, and it’s Technicolor and sweet and hot and close, almost too real. This is one use of his imagination that he keeps to himself. He used to be able to make himself come just from the force of his fantasies, so vivid they were nearly hallucinations. He probably still could, but it’s not something he’s tried in a long time.

His phone rings, and he groans in frustration. It’s work, he can tell from the ring, and it’s late and he’s done for the day and he just needs the time alone and what do they _want_? He can’t not answer it, though, so he reluctantly pulls his hand away and pulls the phone from his pants. He glances down at it. It’s Misha, and he almost lets it go, thinking he’ll claim he turned it off, because if it’s Misha it’s not urgent. He thinks Misha’s maybe decided he wants to talk about what happened tonight. As he’s trying to decide what to do, his thumb flicks across the screen, making the decision for him. He sighs and raises the phone in his left hand.

“What, Misha?” He sounds curt, angry, and he regrets it because he’s really not angry, he just doesn’t want to deal with this.

“You left your hat in my car.” Misha’s voice is deep, sleepy, and part of him thinks _that’s not why you’re calling, you’d have called earlier._ His mind throws up a visual of Misha on his own phone, probably in bed, his lips forming those words, and his cock jerks and throbs. He reaches down reflexively with his right hand, grips himself again.

“Shit,” he gasps—away from the phone, he thinks, but he hears a rustle that tells him Misha’s heard.

“You okay?”

“Yeah…” He’s still holding himself, resisting the impulse to stroke. He doesn’t want to elaborate; he’s not going to—he’s sure Misha can guess what he was doing. He glances down at his hand. Well, what he _is_ doing, sort of.

Misha’s silent for a moment, then: “I called to apologize, for tonight. I think…I may have stepped over a line, and I didn’t know how you felt, but…I shouldn’t have put you in that position, anyway.” He hesitates. There’s a distant ruffling sound, as if of sheets being moved. There’s a silence, then he continues, and there’s a tension in his voice now. Ben shivers and moves his hand— _god yes_ —“You’re doing it, aren’t you? Got yourself in your hand. Jerking yourself. You thinking of me, thinking of my hands on you?”

There’s another rustle on the other end, the sound of a body shifting, and then-- _oh Jesus_ \--a soft moan. He gasps, hand working his cock.

“Misha—“ The name is torn out of him, choked and strangled.

“Yeah. Yeah. You are.” His voice is rough and throaty, and he can hear shifting, movement. Getting comfortable. Maybe pulling his pants down—no, he probably already—His mind flashes an image of Misha, naked, cock in hand, and he moans. “You think about me?”

He closes his eyes. He shouldn’t say anything. “I think about you, yeah. Sometimes. When I’m---mmmm—got myself like this—unnhhh—“

 “Tell me.”

“Mostly…your mouth—oh God—your lips—ah, fuck---your fucking mouth on my cock---uhhhh God so…unnnhhh—“ He arches back, stroking faster, hips lifting off the bed as he thrusts into his hand. the image of those lips around his cock, that mouth sucking him-- he can almost feel it, and he cries out at it, shuddering, hips bucking helplessly. For a moment he thinks it’s over; he’s right on the edge, but then the wave crests, subsides, and he lowers himself, panting.

“Fuck, you’re…” Misha’s voice is tight and breathless, and he hears vague, quick movement. “You’re close, aren’t you? Tell me what else you…mmm…what else you think about.”

Ben gives a breathy, gasping moan. “Think about…sometimes… _ohhhhh_ \---your cock—in—inside me— _shit._ “

He hears Misha’s groan at that, sudden and loud and guttural. He whimpers, hand jerking himself faster, dropping the phone to reach down. “Want you to fuck me, oh God, oh _fuck_ —I—I can’t---“

And then it _is_ over, and he’s spurting over his hand, his belly. He pulls harsh, ragged breaths from the air in the aftermath, eyes closed, muscles trembling. He lies like that for a minute, several minutes, then remembers and picks up his phone. It’s muffled; he thinks Misha’s dropped his phone too. He can just hear the sound of movement, quiet gasps and groans. He pictures the scene, and it doesn’t have the choking force of lust that it did earlier, but a kind of sleepy interest. He bites his lip as the sounds on the other end quicken, louden, then stop. Part of him is trying not to think about what is happening, what they’ve just done; what he said to Misha. They might as well have just fucked in his trailer that evening, if it was going to come to this. He’s never allowed himself to go so far. Shit, he’s been so careful. And tonight, he hadn’t just edged up to the line; he’d barreled right over it. _Want you to fuck me._ Jesus, had he said that, really? He feels an embarrassed need to explain to Misha that he didn’t mean that, not really, it’s a fantasy and yeah it gets him off, but he wouldn’t _really_ want…Because he doesn’t, and he wouldn’t.

“Ben? You still there?” Misha sounds frustratingly unruffled, as if every late night call to a coworker ends like this. Of course, maybe it does for him. He has to stifle a wildly inappropriate giggle at the thought of it. “What’s funny?”

“No…nothing.” The muscles in his belly ache, trembling with the effort of holding back laughter, and he’s aware that he’s on the verge of hysteria. This was a terrible mistake. He has to tell him that. “I didn’t mean…you know, what I said.”

“Yes you did.” Misha sounds vaguely annoyed. “I know it, and you know it better than I do. You think about it, and it gets you off, and you’re afraid that means you really do want it. And that means you want to have sex with a man, and even if you never do—and I can tell you it’s not going to happen with me--that would mean you’re not completely straight, and that scares you.”

He’s completely matter-of-fact. As if he’d thought about this, talked about this, before. He probably has, Ben realizes, though perhaps—probably--not about himself. The speech was too practiced, too easy. Too true.

“I’m not—“ He pauses for a long moment. _Gay_ , he’d been about to add, but that’s ridiculous. They both know he isn’t. Not even close. That’s not the issue here. “—scared.”

And it’s not quite a lie, it really isn’t. He’s not scared. Ashamed of how far they went tonight, yeah, and guilty, yeah. Embarrassed by what he’d said, yeah, embarrassed that he’d revealed such personal fantasies so easily. He doesn’t do that; he keeps things to himself. Things like this, anyway. Usually. But scared? No. Not mostly, anyway.

“I’m sorry.” Misha’s quieter now. “Like I said earlier, before we…Well, before. I had no idea. I wouldn’t have…” he trails off, as if unsure how to end.

_I wouldn’t have touched you like that if I knew it might turn you on_ , Ben finishes in his head, and it should be insulting maybe, but instead he laughs. _It’s all right_ , he thinks he should say, although he doesn’t think it really is, but that’s not Misha’s fault. He doesn’t say anything, and the silence stretches out uncomfortably.

“I guess this didn’t help you relax.” Misha finishes finally, with a sigh. “Which really was my whole point. I just thought I’d call to—to make sure you were okay, you know, not that I thought you weren’t, really, but then I heard you, and I got—I thought this might—shit, this is a mess, isn’t it?”

Ben passes his hand over his eyes, presses it to his forehead. His body’s exhausted, so Misha’s not quite right there—he’s a bit more relaxed. But his mind is in turmoil, and he knows he isn’t going to be able to sleep. So yeah. It’s a mess.

“I’m fine.”

“All right.” Misha sounds frustrated. “Look, I just…I want to help.”

“If you’d left it alone, you wouldn’t need to help.” His voice is tight, bitter. He’s so tired, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to unknot his mind enough to sleep. If Misha had just let it alone tonight, not taken it upon himself to call him, or even better not take it upon himself to help him “relax”, he’d be fine. He’d be asleep now.

“Sorry. I don’t generally expect my straight friends to be having fantasies about me fucking them. The men, anyway. I mean, I know I’m irresistible, but—“

“Leave it.” It hurts. It hurts and he’s angry and frustrated. “Misha, I was dealing with it. It wasn’t a big deal. You made it—“

“I’m not the one who got hard from a shoulder rub. I’m not the one who started jerking off on the phone with you. This is on you, Ben. I didn’t make it and I didn’t start it.”

He forces down a childish _yes you did you started it_ in favor of a far more mature, “Fuck you, Misha.”

Misha’s right, though. He should have refused his offer earlier that evening. He shouldn’t have relaxed into it; should have kept himself under control. Hell, he shouldn’t have answered the phone tonight—why the fuck had he done that? They could have left it as it was, where Misha knew, and he knew, and it was a bit awkward but nothing like the colossal fuckup it is now.

“Yeah, same to you, man.” There’s sudden silence, and he looks down at the phone. Call ended. He swallows. Maybe he should have admitted that there was some truth in what Misha said. But, rightly or wrongly, he feels exposed and angry and humiliated. He doesn’t want to be the one to reconcile, to admit _I was wrong_. Shit, this morning his feelings had been—just an odd little thing. Not even worth calling a _secret_. And now…

“Now we’re in this whole fucking mess,” he whispers.

Tomorrow is going to be fun.


End file.
